The Nelson Shot
by zelofheda-B
Summary: After being hit by a poisoned object, Matt can no longer determine between friend and foe.
1. Chapter 1

Matt supposed it was good luck that only one of the _things_ hit him, considering that they'd just fired an entire barrage at him. He wondered vaguely how they'd done it, packed a shotgun or maybe even a small cannon with them and aimed in his general direction. He'd heard them coming, louder and slower than bullets, and flipped away. Although most of them whizzed by, one of the outermost of the swarm found a target, and there was a sharp, stinging pain in his right buttock. It felt as though somebody had jabbed him with a thick needle. Tranquiliser dart, his mind had shouted, and instinctively, he reached behind, pulled it free, and threw it towards the person next to him. There was a high, pained scream – he must have got the man in the eye. Meanwhile, the shooter had fired again, but Matt was already on the run and the next missiles went in the opposite direction. He didn't think the thing – it hadn't been a dart - had gone deep enough to have an immediate effect, but they obviously wanted him alive, and he wasn't going to make it easy for them.

He sped around the nearest corner, around the next one after that, and vaulted up the wall of the next building. His body was starting to feel slower, but he forced it to keep going, because at least one of the men was following as best he could. It had been a trap, a good one, but Matt was going to escape. He had to escape. He vauled to the next rooftop and fell hard on his knees. His head was starting to swim. They'd pretended to be male rapists, but then, instead of running to safety, the so-called victim had swung at him with a piece of wood, slamming it into his side. There'd been something sharp sticking out of the wood – nails? scalpel blades? – and to his great surprise, they'd gone through his suit and deep enough into his flesh to take what felt like a good chunk out with them. He could feel the wound throbbing even louder than his heartbeat. Now Matt pulled himself upright again, angry both at himself for falling for the trap, and for whoever had put the men up to it. Fisk, he thought vaguely, or someone connected to Fisk.

He had to keep going, lose the man behind him. He jumped to the next roof and ran to the fire escape, slithering down to street level. He couldn't afford any more jumps, not if he didn't want to end up a wet smear on the ground. He was already on the ground. He was already a wet smear. He was … drifting. He couldn't afford to drift. He couldn't give in. Couldn't give up. The man was still behind him somewhere. Something brushed his shoulder and he lashed out, only for his fist to come into contact with brick. Owww … shit. He'd hit a wall. _I've hit the wall_ , he said to himself, and first he wanted to laugh, but then he wanted to cry. He wanted to flop down at the bottom of the wall, cradle his hand, and close his eyes.

Matt kept moving, searching for the alleys away from the main streets. He could feel the pinprick in his buttock with every step, a twinge and a burning alternating with the much greater pain of the wound in his side. Eventually, he became aware of a group of people ahead, some of them smoking, and turned to go back the way he'd come, to find a different route. Behind him, he heard an adolescent voice call out, "Hey, was that the Daredevil?" He forced himself to move faster as he listened to a moment of shocked silence, then a receding chorus of jeers and laughter. Were they laughing at the boy who thought he'd seen Matt? Or were they laughing at Matt himself, how he wounded he looked, how he was bent over and limping? Worse, would their laughter bring the men who'd tried to ambush him? He tried to expand his senses to see if anyone was following – and stumbled, falling to one knee over something small that yelped, then growled, then sank his little teeth into Matt's shin.

It didn't exactly hurt, not through the suit, but Matt was having a hard enough time moving his own body, he didn't want even a small dog clinging to his leg and weighing him down. He only meant to shoo it away with his foot, but misjudged the strength of his swipe and felt the dog go flying, propelled by the toe of his boot; it landed some feet away with a crash and another yelp. Aww, shit, he'd kicked it. He'd kicked a _dog_!

Somewhere behind Matt, a door opened and a woman called out. Even if Matt didn't understand the words, the dog did, and trotted, whining, towards the open door. Matt heaved himseslf back upright and loped in the opposite direction. A dog. He'd never tussled with a dog before; he supposed he was lucky. Some dogs could rip your throat out. Big, mean dogs, the size of seeing-eye dogs, just differently trained. He didn't think this dog had even punctured his suit, though. And he'd _kicked_ it! But even if it had done more than massage his shin with its teeth, the poor doggy obviously lived indoors and was probably healthy. Matt wouldn't have to ask Claire for a … that kind of shot they gave you if you were bitten by a wild animal? Started with an "r?" Or was it an "m"? A mad dog shot? Mad dog. Maddog. Maddock. Murdock. Nelson and Maddog. Nelson and Rabies. That was it. A rabies shot. A Murdock shot. A Nelson shot.

Actually, a Nelson shot sounded like a good thing. He could use a Nelson shot right about now. He should call Claire and ask her to give him one. He reached for his phone with painful, stiff fingers. No, wait. He didn't like drugs. But a Nelson shot wasn't drugs, was it? Even if it made him feel good? Just to be safe, maybe half? He should ask Claire for a half Nelson.

"Matt, what are you talking about?"

The voice startled him. He'd been drifting again. Now he turned his head to search, but did not find her familiar presence, her scent, her heartbeat. "Claire?"

"Matt? Are you _drunk_?"

The voice was coming from his hand. Since when did Claire fit into his hand? No. It was his phone. In his hand. Had Claire called him? Had he called her? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter. "Mm not drunk, Claire."

"Matt, where are you?"

He stopped to consider. He'd kept moving, and now he could smell …

"My building," he murmured. "Close to … home." He could hear somebody singing an old Simon and Garfunkel song. "Ho-omeward bound … I wish I were … ho-omeward bound."

They weren't very good at singing. Claire told them to shush, and they did, but then someone was pushing him down and tugging at his suit, and the dog was biting him again, this time in the side. No, it wasn't the same dog, it was much bigger and meaner, but he could still fight it off.

"Matt, stop that! Hold still! I'm trying to help, dammit!"

Why did they want him to hold still? Why did they want to help the big, mean dog wrestle and bite him?

"Matt! Do that again and I'll tie your hands down!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Shit!" All Claire could feel was her throbbing face and warm liquid running down into her mouth. The force of Matt's blow had knocked her off the bed and onto the floor of his room; she cradled her face in both hands and rolled over onto her side. She was close to his nightstand – too close. She could have hit her head when she'd landed, got a concussion! Her head hurt enough as it was, and she wasn't quite ready to get up yet. As she lay there, she heard the front door open and close, then someone called out, "Matt?"

It was Foggy. Maybe Matt had called him, too. Slumping slightly in relief that someone else was there, she tried to call out, and the sound of footsteps across the living room floor increased in speed. "Claire?"

Now he crouched down next to her, hovering uncertainly. "Oh, my g-d! What happened?"

"Matt," she murmured. "Hit me."

"Matt hit you?" Foggy glanced up to where Matt was sprawled on the bed, quiet for the moment.

Claire took her hands away from her mouth and heard Foggy gasp in surprise. Her face must look pretty bad, to judge from how Foggy's expression went from confusion to horror. "He hit me when I tried to look at where he was hurt." It hurt to talk, but she had to explain. "I thought he was drunk at first, but I don't think he is. Maybe some kind of head injury?"

"I've only seen Matt drunk once or twice, and that was back in college. Hey, you need some ice? I'll get you some." He went over to the kitchen area and rummaged around while Claire pulled herself to a sitting position. When he came back, he handed her an ice pack wrapped in a towel, and she pressed it gently to her face.

"Oww," she groaned.

"Did he break your nose?"

"I'm not sure," Claire admitted with a mental sigh, wondering what kind of story she'd have to make up for the other nurses in the ER if she went to get it treated. Walked into a door … no. Mugged on the street, maybe.

Matt mumbled something from the bed, and Foggy straightened up for a better look at him. "Is he bleeding? Should I be doing something?"

"Yeah, he's bleeding." Claire tried to point. "There should be a towel there, can you put some pressure on the wound? It's on his left side, right under his ribs." It hurt to talk, and wiping the tears from her eyes hurt, too. She really needed to get this checked.

Foggy went around to the other side of the bed and she heard the mattress groan as he sat down.

"He's not bleeding out, is he?" Foggy asked.

"I don't think so, but it's got to be stitched. I should give him a local, too, maybe he won't be so violent if it doesn't hurt so much." Claire realized she was thinking out loud. And the mention of blood reminded her that she'd been sitting around neglecting her patient. Slowly, with another groan, she got to her feet and reached for her bag.

"Can you get his suit off him, or roll up the side or something?" she asked, pulling out a bottle and a packaged syringe.

But when Foggy made an attempt to remove the top half of the suit, Matt lashed out again, hard enough to send Foggy to the floor with a loud cry.

"Matt!"she exclaimed, exasperation overcoming her pain for a moment. "That's it, I'm going to have to restrain you!"

Then she remembered Foggy, and asked, "You okay?"

"Just a black eye, probably," he said, getting up with a groan.

She put the ice pack down and glanced around the room for possibilities, but short of lugging Matt off the mattress and binding his hands to the radiator, there were surprisingly few. His bed didn't have any headboard at all, let alone one that would lend itself to kinky stuff, but she glanced underneath and was pleased to discover that the bed was on legs instead of in a box frame. They would have to do. Setting the local anesthetic aside, she found a roll of gauze and a pair of scissors instead.

"Five minutes ago, I would have offered to sit on him," Foggy said.

"You might have to anyway," she said, looking at where the skin around Foggy's eye was already turning from red to blue, then looking away again.

She got on her hands and knees to tie one end of the gauze bandage to the leg of the bed, but bending her head down made pain explode in Claire's face and black spots dance at the edge of her vision. She had to sit back for a moment before she could get up and reach for Matt's arm.

"Matt," she said softly, tugging off his glove and rubbing the back of his hand, all the while hoping she could jump out of reach if he should move. "Matt, I'm just going to move your arm a little, all right? I'm just stretching it out a bit here."

Then Foggy was there, shifting Matt's nightstand out of the way so that he could stand at the head of the bed and hold Matt's wrist while she quickly rolled the gauze around it three times, then cut the material so she could tie it. They both heaved a sigh of relief when she finished without incident.

Claire let Foggy get under the bed on the other side, and when they'd finished, Claire moved Matt's arm to test his range of movement. It was still too much. After some deliberation, she pulled his left arm closer to his body, as close as the restraint would allow, then rolled out another length of gauze. She tied one end to Matt's wrist, above the first restraint, then threaded the other end carefully underneath Matt's body. He shifted above her hand and murmured something that sounded like, "Uh kicked uh dog."

"You didn't kick a dog, you hit two of your best friends in the face," Foggy said loudly as Claire went around to the other side of the bed and groped for the end of the gauze.

"Mm sorry," Matt replied, squirming a bit. Claire froze at the movement.

"Doggy. Foggy," Matt went on, but at least he stopped wriggling.

"Dude, I'll make you sorry if you ever call me Doggy-Foggy again," Foggy replied, and Claire wanted to smile. But it hurt too much, so she settled for pulling the gauze out from under Matt's back, stretching it tightly, then moving his right arm closer to his body and tying the end of the gauze to his right wrist. Now that he was restrained at two points, she could probably try to check his wound again.

"You think that'll be enough?" Foggy asked. "What about his legs?"

Claire sighed. The pain in her face was becoming exhausting, and she wasn't even close to being done with Matt yet. "Don't suppose you want to sit on him?"

"Hell, no, he'd probably kick me right through the window and over to the next building, even without his hands. Didn't you see that footage of him on the news that one time?"

So they tied each of Matt's legs to the legs of the bed as well, and then to each other. When they were done, Claire reached for the ice pack, pressed it to her face, and sank down on the side of the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

"You all right? You got a concussion?" Foggy placed his hand on her shoulder.

"I just need a minute," she murmured.

"Hey, Matt's still alive, take as much time as you need."

Although Foggy was obviously trying to sound cheerful, Claire could still hear the worry in his voice. She let herself have the promised minute, then put the ice pack aside and looked around for her bag. "Let's get started."

But if she'd hoped that Matt would become less violent once she'd deadened the nerves around his wound, Claire was disappointed. With Foggy holding up the material of the suit so she could see where Matt was injured, Claire got to work. She'd only managed two stitches, though, before Matt began to thrash and cry out again.

"Muh hands! Can't move muh hands!"

"Sshhh, Matt, it's okay, I'm here," Claire said, reaching out to pat his chest.

"Can't move muh legs!" But he _was_ moving them as much as he could within the confines of his bonds. He just couldn't run or kick. Claire rubbed his chest harder, hoping he could feel it through the suit.

"Matt, you're fine, everything is okay, you're dreaming," Foggy told him, patting Matt's arm while glancing at Claire for reassurance that he was saying the right thing. She shrugged, also not certain, but Foggy went on. "You're dreaming, go back to sleep, you'll feel better when you wake up."

"Foggy?" Matt turned his head in the right direction, which gave Claire hope for a moment, but then he turned it away again. "Foggy, uh can't move!"

"You're fine, Matt," Foggy repeated. "This is a dream. Go back to sleep."

"Can you hold him still?" Claire asked. "I should finish this before the Lidocaine wears off."

"What do you want me to do, lay on him?" Foggy snapped. Then he stopped and said, "Sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay," Claire told him, even though she felt like snapping, too. "Just do your best."

Somehow, she managed to finish the rest of the stitches and put a bandage over them. Thankfully, Matt had gone quiet again, letting her work in relative peace.

"All done?" Foggy asked, letting go of Matt.

"Almost," she said. "I want to check his head, see if he's hurt there. Can you help me with his mask?"

As Foggy wrestled with the mask, he grunted, "Don't know how he gets this on and off. I'm going to have to get him to show me when he wakes up."

But eventually, the mask came off, and Claire was able to run her fingers over Matt's skull. No matter how often she checked, though, she couldn't find any sign of swelling or contusions.

"Nothing," she finally conceded. "Whatever did this to him wasn't a brain injury."

"What else could it be?"

Claire considered as she packed up her things. "I'm thinking some kind of drug, maybe. We'll just have to wait until it wears off. Maybe Matt will know what hit him."

"Hit a wall," Matt said. "Uh hit da wall."

"Yeah, Matt," Foggy agreed, patting his arm again. "You're fine now."

"Uh kicked a dog," Matt went on, shifting his legs restlessly. "Uh kicked a dog!"

"Yeah, Matt, you kicked a dog, now go back to sleep." Foggy patted his arm even harder.

"I need to go," Claire said, indicating her nose. "I need to get this checked out."

"Yeah, I'll stay with Matt, you go on," Foggy said.

"Was uh little dog, coulda killed it," Matt insisted.

"Matt, shut up about the damned dog and go the fuck to sleep!" Foggy cried, then cringed visibly. "Sorry, Matt, sorry. You're dreaming, remember? This is all just a bad dream."

"I'll be back in a few hours," Claire said wearily. She wished it was all just a bad dream for her and Foggy as well, but the pain in her nose and the blue-flowering bruise around Foggy's eye were more than enough proof that it was real. Then she thought of something. "Has Matt got any scissors here?"

"I don't think so, why?"

"You need to keep an eye on him, and if he starts to vomit, you need to cut him loose, here and here." Claire indicated the gauze lines that led down to the legs of the bed.

"He's gonna puke?" Foggy sounded close to panic at the thought. Claire thought he must be one of the guys who could dish it out, but not take it, and took mercy on him.

"No, probably not. But just in case, cut him loose and roll him over onto that side so he doesn't choke."

"Uh … okay."

Claire pulled out the scissors she'd just packed away. "Here, use these if you need to. With the way we've restrained him, he shouldn't be able to hit you. Much."

"Thanks, I guess."

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Hopefully it won't take too long at this time of night."

"Do you need someone to go with you?" Foggy checked his watch. "It's only, uh, three a.m. on a Saturday morning, we can call Karen. Why should she get to sleep when we don't?"

Claire shook her head. "I'll be all right. Just … watch over Matt."

"I always do," Foggy said. "Well, as much as he lets me."

And then Claire did smile, despite the pain. "Yeah," she said with a knowing nod. "Yeah."


	4. Chapter 4

Just a quick thank you here to everybody who's following this story, and to goldacharmed, write that wrong, ComicalEpiphanies, and fan for your reviews. :-)

* * *

It was a dream, the same dream he'd been having over and over. He was lying there and couldn't get up, couldn't turn over, couldn't move his arms or legs even though someone was shouting at him and there was something he had to do, except he couldn't. It had to be a dream. Matt had never felt so completely helpless in real life. Even when his opponents had knocked him down, bringing him close to unconsciousness, he'd still been able to bend at the joints and eventually heave himself upright again. And yet it was more real than any dream he'd ever had.

Matt never felt pain in his dreams, but now his head ached and there was a low-level throbbing in his side. He'd definitely felt worse in real life; it wasn't enough to keep him down. And so he tried again to roll over, to at least get to his knees, but the only thing that happened was the dull ache exploding into a sharper pain. He groaned, and became aware that the dart-wound on his ass was hurting again, too, as though the dart were still in him, but at least he was lying on something soft.

Soft? Wait, just what was he lying on? He'd expected to be on the ground, maybe in a dumpster, but this … felt like a bed. Like his bed. He could feel the blanket under his fingers, and it felt like his own blanket. There was even a pillow under his head. It even smelled like his bedroom. It also smelled like Foggy and Claire, as though they'd been there recently. He listened. The sound of the city was far away, outside the window on his left and several floors down, just like in his apartment. And there, over in the kitchen, was a heartbeat. Foggy's heartbeat.

He was home and Foggy was there, so why couldn't he move? He tried again, gritting his teeth against the pain, and realized that something was holding him in place by the wrists and ankles. He'd been tied up. Why was he tied up? And if he was tied up, then this couldn't be his room, and maybe Foggy wasn't really there, either, because why would Foggy tie him to his own bed? Well, okay, he could think of an answer to that, but surely not when he was hurt and unconscious and still had his boots on?

Fisk. It could only be Fisk, or his men. Somehow they'd followed him here and tied him down, and if Foggy really was here, maybe he was a hostage now, and it was all Matt's fault. Matt listened harder, trying to determine how many others were here, but he could only make out one heartbeat. Maybe they were alone for now. If he could get free, he could rescue Foggy and they could get out of here before the men came back.

Matt wriggled his fingers, trying to discover what they'd used to tie him, but no matter how he bent and twisted, he only succeeded in making the muscles of his hand cramp. Because his wrist was much less sensitive than his fingertips, he could only determine that his bonds were light and soft, didn't rub like a rope, and went off in two different directions.

There were footsteps from the living room, coming towards his bed. Only one person, one with a familiar scent as well as a familiar heartbeat.

"Foggy?" he asked, just to make certain.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm here. It's okay, go back to sleep."

There was a creak as Foggy sat down on a chair that should have been on the other side of Matt's bed, in the corner of the room. Why had Foggy moved the chair? Or maybe he hadn't, maybe it had been the men, maybe one of them had sat there after he'd tied Matt up, wanting a better vantage point to make sure Matt didn't try to get away. He didn't know why they'd left Foggy free, but it didn't matter, there was nobody else here for now, and the explanations could wait until they had escaped.

"Foggy, untie me, we can get out of here before they come back," he urged.

"Before who comes back?" Foggy asked, genuinely curious, but then his tone changed to one of weary repetition. "Matt, you're dreaming, just go back to sleep."

"Whoever tied me down," Matt said. "Was it's Fisk's men? Come on, untie me."

"Matt, it's okay." Foggy reached out and started patting his arm. He sounded both worried and slightly condescending as he said again, "You're dreaming, go back to sleep."

"I am not dreaming, Foggy," Matt insisted, trying to catch Foggy's sleeve, but the angle was all wrong and he couldn't reach. "Come on, help me out here, we can escape."

Then he stopped at the sound of footsteps coming towards his front door. There was a quiet knock, and Foggy whispered, "Thank g-d," as he got up, the chair groaning under his movement. Matt remained still, listening for a heartbeat, waiting for a telltale scent.

"Was it broken?" Foggy asked. His voice was soft, but Matt could still hear what he was saying.

"Yeah. They wanted to put me under so they could reset it, but I insisted on a local, because of …"

"Claire?" Matt called out, and Foggy hissed, "Damn, I thought he was still asleep. He keeps asking me to untie him so we can escape."

Claire crossed the living room with Foggy behind her, and as soon as her foot touched his bedroom floor, Matt asked, "Claire, are you hurt?"

There was a short pause and then Foggy burst out, "Says the man who's laying there with ten stitches in his side!"

"Nine," Claire corrected, and her voice definitely sounded different, more nasal. "How do you feel, Matt?"

"Why am I tied up? And I am not dreaming," he insisted. "I can tell you've been hurt. Your face? Your nose?"

"We can talk about my nose later." Claire sat down on the side of the bed and Matt worried for just a moment that she was going to pat him on the arm as well. She didn't, and he was grateful. But then she just sat there, and the silence became awkward.

"So, what's going on?"


	5. Chapter 5

"You were … pretty out of it for a while," she said, choosing her words carefully. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Matt thought for a moment, sorting through various disconnected memories for the most relevant one. "They hit me with a jack."

"A jack? A carjack?" Foggy asked.

"I think I would have noticed if you'd been hit in the head with a carjack," Claire said. "And I checked, believe me."

"Not a carjack, a jack. Like those children's toys? When I was a kid, a girl on my street had some that she got from her grandmother. You were supposed to bounce a ball, then pick up one, then two, then three, and so on."

"Oh, jacks!" Claire exclaimed, relieved that Matt wasn't as confused as he'd sounded. "I always just used to twirl mine."

"Yeah, me, too," Foggy said. "See how many I could get going before the first one ran down. But Matt, those things are dull as shit, they couldn't hurt anyone, which, by the way, I know from personal experience because my brother used to shoot them at me with his slingshot whenever my sister wanted to play with them."

"The one that hit me had been sharpened," Matt remembered. "All those little bars, as sharp as needles, so that it would hit no matter how it landed."

"Like caltrops," Foggy murmured. "Nasty."

"It was a trap; they wanted me alive. They used something to shoot a whole swarm of them at me, a little cannon or a rocket launcher maybe. I didn't get out of the way of all of them."

"And I'll just bet they were all soaked in some kind of drug," Claire said. "Thank God they didn't all hit you, you were loopy enough from just one. You were singing."

"Matt was singing?" Foggy sounded delightedly surprised. "Matt never sings!"

And there was a good reason for that, which Matt didn't want to admit. Hastily, he tried to change the subject. "I think I fell over a dog and it tried to bite me."

"Oh, Matt, please, not the dog again," Foggy moaned. "You've been talking about it all night. I kicked a dog, I kicked a dog, I'm going to hell because I kicked a dog! But do you worry about going to hell because you hit your best friends in the face, no, it's all about the damned – oh."

Many clues clicked suddenly into place even before Foggy ended his rant with a sheepish sound, and Matt's heart suddenly hurt worse than any wound.

"Claire? I hit you in the face? I—I broke your nose?"

"Yeah, Matt," she admitted softly. "You broke my nose."

"Foggy?" Matt wasn't even sure he wanted to find out what he'd done to his best friend, but on the other hand, he had to know.

"Just a black eye, man, nothing permanent." Foggy was forcing his voice to sound light and unconcerned, which made Matt feel even more miserable.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Claire, Foggy, I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay, you didn't know what you were doing," Claire said, and then she walked around to the other side of the bed and picked up something from near his knee. "So that's why we tied you up, but now I guess we can let you go."

He heard a soft snip and some of the pressure on his wrist fell away. "No!" he cried, suddenly panicking. "What if I – what if I'm still under the influence, what if I hurt you again? You should – you should leave me like this until you know for certain."

Claire and Foggy were both silent, and Matt could imagine them looking at each other. Quickly, he went on, "The dog, remember the dog? I only wanted to push it away, but I kicked it! I could have killed it! What if I just want to touch you but I end up hitting you again? What if I hurt you worse?"

Foggy's heartbeat speeded up, but Claire's remained calm. "I think it's worn off by now, Matt," she said. "You're not singing, you're not slurring your words, you make sense when you speak, and you know who we are. It's my medical opinion that it's safe to untie you."

"But you can stay there if you really want," Foggy put in, though Matt definitely heard a touch of hope in Foggy's voice.

"How about a compromise where we observe you for a while?" Claire suggested. "If you're still coherent and not violent in, say, an hour, then we'll let you up, all right?"

Matt turned his head to where Foggy was still standing by the door. "Foggy? Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah," Foggy said, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. "Sure. One hour."

And Matt could also hear the relief in his voice when Foggy teased, "Matt, you're such a masochist."

It was such an old, well-worn insult that it wasn't even an insult anymore, just a declaration designed to get Matt to smile. But this time, Matt didn't feel like smiling. Foggy had been afraid of him! Even if it was just for a moment, even if he'd got over it relatively quickly, he'd still felt fear where Matt was concerned. Tears stung his eyes; he wished he still had his mask on.

"I'm really sorry, Foggy. I never –" His voice broke. _I'm so sorry, I never meant to hurt you_ , sounded so cliché, like an abusive boyfriend who'd always done it and would always do it again. But he'd never done it before, never hurt Foggy physically, anyway, though he remembered how Foggy had found out about his vigilante activities and how hurt he'd been then. That hadn't been deliberate, either, but all the same, it had still been devastating for his friend.

"Matt," said Claire, breaking into his thoughts. "Matt, it's all right, it was an accident, it wasn't your fault."

"If I hadn't –" he choked out, but again, words failed him. _If I hadn't gone out. If only I'd gotten out of the way faster. If only I'd never started this vigilante-thing in the first place._

"Do you want some water?" Claire asked. Matt shook his head, his throat too tight to speak, but Claire told Foggy to get him some anyway. "You've been losing blood, Matt, you need to drink."

And then, as Foggy went away to the kitchen, Claire moved, and Matt heard another soft snip.

"Close your eyes," she said, and when he'd done so, she leaned over and wiped his tears with a piece of gauze.

"Don't beat yourself up," she said. "You didn't know what you were doing."

He wanted to turn his head away, to tell her not to be nice to him, not after he'd _broken her nose_ , but he couldn't. When she'd finished with his face, she sat down on the chair and took his hand in hers, and he wasn't able to pull away then, either.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was trying to treat this junkie in the ER?" she said. "He kicked me in the hip, sent me halfway across the room! I had a bruise there for weeks. And yeah, it hurt. But you know what? It healed, and so will this."

Her soft tone and forgiving words were enough to make him start crying again. This time, he did turn away, using Foggy's return as an excuse, but Claire reached over and blotted his tears a second time. Then she took the glass from Foggy with one hand, and supported his head with the other one. "Come on, have a drink."

"If you're going to be doing this more often, you really need some bendy straws," Foggy told him when he'd finished. "I should buy you a pack."

"I won't be doing this more often," Matt vowed. "I don't need bendy straws."

But Foggy's offer had revealed that he was practically expecting Matt to get into a similar situation at some point in the future, hurting his friends instead of his enemies, and the realization hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that Claire hadn't seen the newest batch of tears .


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks again to everybody who is following this, and has favourited it, and to those who've read to end. Special thanks to Goldacharmed, Guest, and Esin of Sarsis for the new reviews. :-)

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When the hour was over, Claire cut the ties and unwound them from Matt's wrists and ankles while Foggy pulled Matt's boots off. Matt sat up and groaned.

"You should take things easy for a few days," Claire said. "Because if you rip those stitches, I'll be tempted to tie you down again and not let you up until they're healed. But for now, I'm going to go home and sleep."

"It's not the stitches that are bothering me," Matt said, starting to wriggle out of his suit. Foggy helped, and when he'd gotten the top part off, Matt added, "It's the puncture wound. Feels like that jack is still in there, but I know I pulled it out."

"You couldn't have mentioned this earlier?" Claire sighed a little, then started pulling on gloves. "All right. Show me."

Matt lowered himself facedown to the bed and used one hand to expose his right buttock. Claire leaned close, then said, "I'm going to need a lamp."

"Try this." Foggy pulled something out of his pocket and clicked it; Matt thought it sounded like his phone. "Flashlight app. Is that okay?"

"Flashlight app is good, Matt's ass … is not so good. Help me out here, Matt." Claire wrestled with the waistband of his pants, and Matt stood up again, taking his suit pants off completely and pulling his underwear down before stretching out on the bed again.

"You say it feels like there's something still in there?" she asked, and Matt was aware of his involuntary flinches under her probing fingers.

"I'm going to try something," she murmured. "It might not work, and it will definitely hurt, but not as much as scraping it out with a scalpel."

She placed her fingers on either side of the puncture and gave a mighty squeeze. Matt gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers into his blankets as Foggy exclaimed, "Whoa! Giant pimple much?"

Then Claire let go and wiped something away from the top of the wound. "Yeah, here's a tiny bit of metal. I'd say it was the tip of that jack-dart-thing, probably broke off when you pulled it out. You're up to date on your tetanus shots, right, Matt?"

Matt hesitated, trying to remember the last time he'd had an innoculation, and Claire sighed again. "Well, you can get one when you go to the ER. You'll need antibiotics anyway; maybe those jacks were doused in some kind of poison, not just a drug, because this is already on the freeway to infection, and from there, it's only a short ride to death by septicemia."

"Death, Matt, she said death." Foggy added. "Now, are you coming voluntarily or do we have to tie you up again and throw you in the back of a taxi?"

"I can't go to the hospital," Matt replied automatically. "What am I supposed to tell them? That I was just walking along and got hit by a dart that came out of nowhere? What if Fisk's men have contacts there?"

There was a silence as they all considered the likelihood of such a possibility.

"Darts," Foggy mused, but then his voice speeded up. "I know! We can tell them that you and I were drinking and throwing darts … okay, so I was drinking and throwing darts, and eventually, I got so drunk that I missed the board and hit you in the ass. "

"While I was sitting down?"

"When you got up to go to the bathroom, man!" Foggy began to elaborate. "Yeah, you didn't want to be there and you kept nagging me to leave and go home, so I just got drunker and drunker, and then I missed the board on purpose and hit you in the ass because you were being a pain in the ass!"

Matt recognized a subconscious reversal of their life situation in Foggy's words, with Foggy not wanting to be the one sitting around and waiting while Matt was active, and it made him sad. He got to his feet, pulling up his underwear as an excuse to keep his head down.

"Works for me," Claire said, her shrug audible in her voice. "I've heard worse in the ER. But what if they ask about your black eye?"

Foggy reached over suddenly and smacked Matt directly over the puncture wound.

"Ow! Foggy!" He hadn't registered Foggy's movement as a threat, hadn't even reacted defensively, and now his entire buttock was stinging.

Foggy continued to spin the story. "But after I _hit my best friend in the ass_ I felt so bad it that I let him take a swing at me in return. What? It's the truth, in a manner of speaking. We just fudge the timing a little."

Claire laughed, and Matt felt a reluctant smile come to his face, both at Foggy's use of the term 'in a manner of speaking' and what Foggy's little speech meant. Foggy was willing to keep Matt's secret, even if it meant portraying himself as a drunken idiot who threw darts at blind people. And when he'd slapped Matt, he hadn't even been afraid that Matt would defend himself with another punch.

"All right," Matt conceded with relief. "With a story that good, I guess I'll be safe in the hospital."

"Damn right," Foggy said. "I didn't become a lawyer without learning how to spin the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Foggy?" Matt turned in the direction of his friend's voice and held out a horizontal fist. "Thanks."

Foggy bumped it, and there was a smile in his voice as he said, "You're welcome. Now come on, get dressed before that septicemia takes over and I have to carry your dead ass all the way there."

Matt could have sworn that there was a warmth spreading from his knuckles up his arm, straight to his heart, and from there throughout his entire body. It felt like he'd gotten an injection of forgiveness and intravenous good-will.

The Patented Foggy Nelson Friendship and All-Around Feel-Better Shot.

Or maybe he could just call it the Nelson Shot.

 _The End_


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